


feels like there’s oceans (between me and you)

by lovelypl4n3t



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, background bokuaka - Freeform, background kagehina - Freeform, background osasuna - Freeform, slight angst, soulmate injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelypl4n3t/pseuds/lovelypl4n3t
Summary: “Did ya know that when we see stars, we see into the past? Light takes over eight minutes’ta reach the earth so we’re seein’ eight minutes in’ta the past.” Atsumu says this without looking away, his eyes entranced by the sheer darkness of the night sky.“No, I didn’t know that.” Sakusa’s reply is quiet and barely there, and Atsumu has to listen closely to catch every word.(or: atsumu and kiyoomi navigate a world where soulmates are determined by sharing injuries)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Kudos: 199





	feels like there’s oceans (between me and you)

Atsumu is seven when the first bruises that definitely aren’t his appear on his skin. They’re dark and angry, like little ink splotches that mar his once perfect and unblemished skin. It’s a hard concept for a seven year old Atsumu to grasp -- there’s someone out there that caused these contusions, and actually feels the stinging, aching pain when the area is touched. 

He hates it, even at the small age of seven. 

His twin, Osamu, is lucky. No cuts or wounds have materialised yet, until they do. Osamu’s bruises are small and could be mistaken for ones caused by clumsiness. There’s a tear at his knee, possibly indicating a trip, and a bruise on his ankle that gleams an ugly purple. 

The bruises Atsumu has are different. They’re dotted around his forearms and his palms, the surface of his skin stained a yellowy green like his soulmate was painting and spilled the watercolours. His mother almost suggests abuse, until she realises how the marks accumulate around his forearms, which in theory, would be an odd place to be hit. 

She comes to the conclusion of volleyball. Atsumu hasn’t heard of whatever this is, and when she clicks open a volleyball page information on the internet, he decides he just has to try it. And so, Atsumu begs his mother to buy them a ball so he too can play volleyball, just like his soulmate. 

It only gets worse from there. 

Even after just the first hit, that first taste of spiking draws Atsumu into volleyball, that slight tinge of pain he gets when he slaps the ball over the net and harshly onto the ground. He instantly decides he loves it, and with the help of Osamu, the two get classes at the local gymnasium. 

There, they’re the only set of twins. No one can tell them apart, and that usually irks them, but Osamu too, has had his eyes opened to the wonders of volleyball. The two have conflicting opinions about the position they’d most like to play, and despite being near copies of the other, Osamu sees the beauty in spiking. He appreciates the satisfaction when the ball slams onto enemy court, and when their opponents try to block his advances, and fail. It’s when the ball hits the ground before any players can retrieve it, often resulting in a sprawling mess of athletes is Osamu at his happiest. 

Atsumu, on the other hand, discovers the incredulity of setting. He understands how the setter could be called ‘the brain’ of the team, and when everyone thinks the spikers run the show, they too, would be mistaken because the setters decide where the ball goes. The setters decide which attackers would grant them the most points. The setters hold all the control.

It’s invigorating. 

He wonders what position his soulmate plays, if he even plays volleyball. Perhaps it’s abuse, like his mother had originally thought. Perhaps his soulmate is a libero, the masters of defence and receives. Perhaps his soulmate is like Osamu, a spiker. He frowns at the thought of one day playing against them, not as soulmates, but as enemies.

He quickly discourages that evil, disgusting thought.

  
  


┈┈┈

  
  


Atsumu is ten when the skin on his hands begin to look not unlike a reptile’s -- scaly, dry and cracked. It’s the middle of winter, and it’s all the boy can do to not pick at the skin like the little urges in his brain are telling him to do. 

His mother ends up wrapping them in bandages, sending him off to school with bottles of lotion that soothe the dryness and make the crevices dissipate, even for a small time. It’s no use, however. They only grow worse as time goes on, and Atsumu has to accept that during the winter, his volleyball playing will be slightly off because he’ll have to play with bandages fully encasing his hands. 

Osamu’s injuries aren’t like his. There had only ever been a few bruises that he couldn’t recognise on his skin, and for that, Atsumu is jealous. Osamu doesn’t have his volleyball playing affected by his soulmate, and purely because of that, Atsumu is envious. He doesn’t hate his soulmate, on the contrary. He wants to help them -- find out why their skin cracks at a predictable time each year, and what he could do to ease that burden. 

It’s around this time that the Miya twins join their first team, quickly being known for their near telepathic communication and outstanding abilities. Atsumu was always behind Osamu due to the annual winter scales, and this only adds fuel to the fire that generates in his soul. 

There’s a frustration that rubs at him from the inside when Osamu gets chosen as the team’s first official setter, despite Osamu’s desire to not set, and instead spike his way into the mental danger-lists of each opposition. It eats at him, and that forms motivation that tears away the mental barriers he once had. 

He learns to play through the winters, only taping specific fingers and applying lotion like it would give him the wings he so hungered for. Only then, does he catch up to Osamu. Even then, it’s a half-hearted pass. His technique grows sturdier and his game instinct is suddenly so much clearer; he can see the plays before they happen and he can see what he needs to do to fulfil those little battles that take place in a single volleyball game set. 

Atsumu is fifteen when he and his twin make the choice to attend Inarizaki High. The two decide on that specific high school because of its history of clawing their way to the volleyball nationals that take place twice a year. They’ve already established themselves as so-called ‘geniuses’ in their suburban town of Hyogo, forcing what opponents they faced to remember the two twins with what seemed like psychic powers- one being a setter, the other a spiker.

It’s a no-brainer when they’re put on the team, as well as a boy named Suna Rintarou, and another called Ginjima Hitoshi. They’re only first years, but there’s a familiar face of Aran Ojiro peering at them from the higher social status of a second year, his eyes warm and inviting. Aran plays as a wing spiker, just like Osamu. And for that, Atsumu can’t help but feel glad that the others on this team are  _ nice.  _

The bruises on his arms continue to grow, but they’re somehow less. They come at less-frequent intervals, and there’s less of them. It’s like Atsumu’s soulmate has learned from all the pain the contusions cause. Of course, Atsumu never felt any of it. That’s how soulmates worked. The injuries of your fated pair would appear on your skin, except without the hurt that formed them in the first place -- it’s simple science, his mother has said many times. 

Atsumu has become accustomed to wrapping his hands in winter, doing it nonchalantly like a routine every day after the first day of winter. Except this year, there’s no cracks. There’s no familiar scales on his hands that peel off with ease, flaking onto the ground. There’s no need to swathe his fingers in plasters anymore. 

“‘Samu! There are no cracks!”

“What the hell? Are ya shittin’ me?” 

“No!” His voice trails off as he peers down at his hands that are outstretched in front of him. They’re as supple as usual, the skin unblemished except for the scars the cracks brought with them each year. 

“My god. Maybe this is'ta year that you look like a normal person in winter.” Osamu teases, and Atsumu can only stare down at his fingers.

“Maybe.” He says softly, already missing the crevices. 

There’s something so warming about the cracks. It reminds Atsumu that his someone is out there, causing these to form each year without fail, except this one. It reminds him that there is a person out there, in the big wide world, that can stand him perhaps for more than a few hours. 

It’s not like he tries to be this annoying, loud pinnacle of egotism. He’s been compared to Narcissus from Greek Mythology more times than he can count -- a man who died, staring at his own reflection in a spring that somehow became his love interest instead of a person like him who lived and breathed like he did. 

Atsumu hates the comparison. He’s not as shallow as he’s made out to be, not as hopeless as he’s told he is, not as useless as he’s perceived as. The cracks that appear on his hands help refresh his memory of the partner he’s fated to have. 

It’s that same year that Osamu finds his soulmate. 

The twins had fought, like usual, except that this time it had turned physical. Atsumu’s fists had connected with Osamu’s, leaving scratches and redness that disturbed the typical flawlessness of his skin. In return, Osamu’s feet leave bruises on his calves. 

They’re both covered in band-aids and gauze when they return to bed, having made up. 

_ “Hey ‘Samu, why were we even fighting?” _

_ “You said my soulmate was ugly.” _

_ “Oh yeah. Sorry.” _

The real surprise had been when they’d arrived at school that day, only to find one of their close friends, Suna Rintarou (nicknamed ‘Sunarin’), with marks on his face that mirrored Osamu’s. The eyes of the grey-haired twin had grown to the size of dinner plates, and a coy smile had played on Atsumu’s lips.

He’d always suspected the two to be soulmates, forever bound to each other by the harsh hands of fate, but this only bore to the world that they were each other’s. It made his heart sink and melt at the same time.

On one hand, he was bursting with joy for Osamu. Finding soulmates at a young age was a rare thing, especially with only the small hints of the injuries. Most people didn’t have a twin with a competitive streak the size of the fucking moon, and most people didn’t get into fist-fights with people they were related to. 

However, the happiness that beamed on his other half’s face was enough. 

On the other hand, Atsumu was envious. Why did Osamu get to meet his person first? Where was his own? It only tied into the lack of cracks that had formed that winter, the incorrigible feeling that his soulmate was  _ leaving him.  _

Osamu had assured him, many times in fact, that it was impossible for someone’s soulmate to one day just not be their soulmate. And many times had Atsumu been eased of the burden that hung around his shoulders like a noose. 

However, this was the moment it all came crashing back down -- when Osamu and Suna locked eyes, the other studying the identical marks on each other’s face like it was only a hallucination. 

From that moment on there’d been a third in their relationship, the enabler himself, Suna Rintarou. It had been strange at first, sharing Osamu with Suna, but it grew on him. 

No longer was he surprised at coming home after an extra practise to see Suna perched on the couch above Osamu, hands intertwined. No longer was he staggered at the way Suna would glance at Osamu during practise, still shooting banter like bullets despite their discovered bond. 

  
  


┈┈┈

  
  


Merely a year later, at the ripe age of sixteen, Atsumu had attended the All Japan training week in Tokyo. Granted, it was without Osamu, so he couldn’t help but feel frustrated at his twin’s lack of competitiveness at Atsumu getting invited and not him. 

It’s a new and strange experience, travelling to Tokyo by himself as the only member of the Inarizaki volleyball team that got invited, despite the fact there were at least two other amazing players he could name that also deserved to be there with him. 

Atsumu knows literally no one here, and it’s quick to set itself in his mind as his eyes roam the selection of players invited. The familiar garish yellow and green highlighter of the Itachiyama team stands out, with two players bearing their jerseys. There’s an unfamiliar jersey colour here -- red. The boy wearing it is thinner than most there, his eyes an intense storm and his hair a dark raven colour against his pale skin. 

There’s a youthfulness to his face that Atsumu can only describe as naivety as he watches who he now knows as Kageyama Tobio set the ball to the spiker known as Sakusa Kiyoomi. It’s a nice toss, sure, (he won’t admit it to anyone’s face), but where’s the fun in that? Isn’t there a beauty in chaotic plays? 

There’s also a beauty in Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu quickly decides after meeting the spiker. His dark hair is curly, and when he’s not bound by the volleyball court, his face is obscured by surgical masks and his hands by rubber gloves. 

Sakusa’s face is often lined in a scowl, eyes taught and hands clenched. His brows are thick and tapered, his nose thin and defined. However, the most surprising thing about the spiker are the two moles that lay above his left eyebrow -- one stacked on top of the other. 

Atsumu can see exactly why Kiyoomi (‘Omi-kun’, as he’s begun calling the other), was invited to the training camp in his hometown of Tokyo. His spikes have a nasty spin on them, and it’s amazing to see him spike with Atsumu’s serves, even if he does doubt them at first. 

They barely get along, with Sakusa snapping back short and harsh replies to Atsumu’s now foreign, kansai ben accent that drawls its way through his lips. His words almost sound lazy, if saying anything in comparison to Sakusa’s city boy accent. 

“Did ya just doubt my toss?” It’s a practise game, with Atsumu playing setter and Sakusa and Hoshiumi being spikers. Their makeshift team is completed with Sakusa’s cousin, a boy named Komori who’s their libero. 

“Just had to make sure.” Sakusa’s reply is cool and collected as he turns back to his original place after scoring a point against Kageyama-kun’s team with his awful spin. 

Atsumu huffs as the game resumes, Kageyama trying to take back that well earned point with a nasty setter dump that Komori lunges for and receives, passing it to Hoshiumi. Hoshiumi’s small stature makes it easier for get into the air and  _ jump  _ as if his bones are hollow and there are feathered wings sprouting from his shoulder blades. 

“Nice kill, Hoshiumi-san!” Atsumu calls to the boy, watching his face light up with praise. As the game continues, the blond setter can’t help but feel a calling towards Sakusa, as if their atoms were just meant to be together and that he should toss all his sets to the spiker, even if Hoshiumi will certainly get them that point. 

It’s dangerous, that’s what it is. 

This new addition to his already swirling mind is absolutely lethal to his game play -- how can he think about who to send to when his brain goes:  _ sakusa! sakusa! sakusa!  _ Even when the boy is off the court and Atsumu isn’t that stupid feeling keeps coming back.

During the break between sets, he sat with his legs crossed on the ground, head in his hands as he shook his brain back and forth, telling it;  _ no. not sakusa. do what’s best for the game, nothing else.  _ He decides he probably looks mad, but then again, when has he cared what people think of him?

Even in middle school, when he was playing in a team with Osamu, he didn’t care. Even when his spikers couldn’t hit his tosses, he didn’t care. He didn’t care so much that he marched up to them, in all of his seventh grade glory, and told them, “I know my tosses are good, so why aren’t you scoring?”

In the end, it made everyone except Osamu detest him, but he was apathetic. What did the opinions of low-lifes like them matter to him? They didn’t.

Their training camp had continued, and on the last day, Komori had coaxed Sakusa into sitting with Atsumu, Kageyama, Hoshiumi and a few others. Sakusa, for the first few minutes, sat there in a silence that was swallowed up by Atsumu’s voice. 

It’s not a comfortable quiet, but one that’s uneasy and like a horse that might buck, but also might not. Atsumu instantly hates it, and that unrest slips through his veins. 

“Has anyone here met their soulmate?” Atsumu’s voice ricochets into the air, and surprisingly, Kageyama answered. 

“Yeah. Met on the first day of school and realised that the bruises he’d gotten from receive practise ended up on me.” The first year setter from Karasuno replied almost lazily, recalling details with an ease that could only be supported by the faraway look in his eyes. 

“How’d he react’ta ya comin’ here?”

Kageyama only chuckles, which is a strange sound from the so-called goody-two shoes. “He was jealous, of course. He’s constantly put down by his height, or,” he paused, “lack of it, I guess, and he’s probably training extra hard, the dumbass. He’s such an idiot.” 

Hoshiumi is about to interject after hearing about how Kageyama’s soulmate apparently didn’t have much height, but is interrupted by Atsumu. “My brother’s soulmate happened’ta be a guy on our team, back home. Was funny when’ta bruise I’d given him showed up on Suna’s face. Now they’re joint at the goddamn hip.” 

Komori cracks a smile, and Sakusa even looks up. “What position does your soulmate play, Kageyama-san? Is he any good?” 

“He’s a middle blocker and a pretty effective decoy. Blocked one of Ushiwaka’s spikes.” It’s a simple reply but even after only knowing Kageyama for a week, Atsumu can tell the Karasuno boy loves, or at least cares for his soulmate, whoever he is. 

“Wow!” Komori chirps, and Sakusa lifts his head to gaze at the circle, eyes sharpened with newfound interest. 

“Is that how you beat Wakatoshi-kun?” 

Kageyama only shakes his head. “Takes more than a single receive to beat Ushiwaka.” His eyes are soft as he reminisces that specific game and everything they learnt from it, especially how to deal with Tendou Satori’s incredible guess blocking, and of course, Ushijima Wakatoshi’s southpaw serve and spike. 

“Anyone else got any fun soulmate stories before we turn in for the night?” Atsumu says. “Other than Tobio-kun and I, of course.” 

That uneasy silence is back, flooding between the distances of the players and infiltrating Atsumu’s safe haven. He hates it, even more than before, and to combat it he stands up from his place in the circle. A lazy smile sits on his face. “See ya’ll tomorrow. Don’t let’ta bed bugs bite Tobio-kun, Omi-kun.” 

He can feel Sakusa’s glare lasering through the back of his head as he leaves the group, and it’s a burning hot  _ ice  _ that sprouts and grows within his mind like a runaway plant. A hand slips into his golden hair as he makes way back to his futon, but he can’t help but look down at his hands and see the scars. 

Atsumu shares a room with Komori, the Itachiyama libero and much to his dislike, Sakusa’s cousin. Komori doesn’t return until later, only to find the setter cross-legged on his bed, eyes glued to his hands like he’d just discovered he had earth-razing powers. 

“What’cha got there?” The libero asks, flipping on the light-switch. 

“Nothing. Just, my soulmate had really dry hands every winter and this is the first year without it. It’s…” Atsumu trails off. “It’s weird. I almost miss it.”

Komori seems intrigued, so they talk for a few more minutes before Atsumu shakes his head, declaring the matter so stupid that they shouldn’t bother discussing it. It results in Komori’s usually happy face transforming into a frown, but the latter doesn’t press it.

That night is the last time Atsumu speaks about his soulmate.

He presses that awful urge to be drawn to Sakusa away, and shoves it in the back of his mind between his huge love for volleyball and the few brain cells Osamu thinks he has. 

It works, kind of. He doesn’t think of Sakusa every time he sets the ball. 

  
  


┈┈┈

  
  


Atsumu is twenty three when he meets Sakusa Kiyoomi again, this time surrounded by his MSBY Black Jackal teammates that holler and yell like there’s no tomorrow. It’s by this time that the setter has almost entirely given up on the idea of soulmates, casting it away like a fantasy gone wrong. 

Of course, Atsumu isn’t bitter when other people’s soulmates come to stay. He’s delighted to meet the soulmate of Kageyama Tobio, even after so long. His name is Hinata Shouyou, and Atsumu vividly remembers seeing him in the National Volleyball Tournament after the training camp and being  _ impressed.  _

It wasn’t everyday you met a person who could easily be mistaken for a middle schooler that could jump higher than a person of six feet and two inches. 

The party he’s at is loud, and Atsumu is used to loud. He is loud. There’s music pumping from speakers as they celebrate the arrival of their two newest Jackals -- Hinata and Sakusa. The latter of course, didn’t want to be there. Sakusa was huddled in the corner, a surgical mask concealing the bottom half of his face and his hands anxiously pressed between his thighs. 

Atsumu is mildly concerned and almost wants to check up on him, but decides against it because no, he doesn’t want to get yelled at. Contrary to popular opinion, he’s not a glutton for punishment. 

Okay, maybe he might go and check on Sakusa. The spiker has begun hyperventilating, and Atsumu hopes he won’t just make it worse. 

Stumbling around all the partygoers, he crouches next to Sakusa. “Hey, Omi-kun. Ya okay? Yer worryin’ me.” 

“I’m fine, Miya. Fuck off.” Kiyoomi says this in between desperate pants for air, and Atsumu shakes his head. If someone is gasping for breaths, there’s no possible way they were ‘okay’. It just doesn’t compute in Atsumu’s brain. 

“I may be stupid, but I’m not dumb. C’mon, we’re goin’ outside.” 

Regrettably, Atsumu takes Sakusa by the hand and drags him through the back doors, apologising to everyone he bumps into. Now, the once humid air of the celebration is gone, replaced with the cool air of an August night. 

“Better?” He lets Sakusa inhale, and the latter’s hyperventilating dissipates as he lifts his mask of his face to breathe. 

“Miya, you’re both dumb and stupid. Don’t fucking touch me.” Kiyoomi scowls, and Atsumu sighs. He tried, he supposes. 

“‘m glad yer okay, Omi-kun.” He leaves Sakusa outside, heading back into the party and quickly running into Bokuto, their team’s wing spiker.

“Miya! What the fuck?” Sakusa’s voice can be heard from outside, and Atsumu turns his attention outside. His teammate is surprising loud for someone who barely speaks, and after sighing (because he knows this will go badly), he makes his way towards where Sakusa is sitting.

“Why the fuck did you help me?” 

Atsumu shrugs. “This is yer party and ya didn’t look like ya were havin’ a very good time.” He’s honestly too tired to put on the egotistical, narcissistic mask he dons every day, so he just glances wearily at Sakusa’s face, or what he can see of his face. 

“Why?”

“I may be an asshole but ’m not  _ that  _ kind’da asshole. Or at least, I hope ’m not.” He takes a seat next to Sakusa, staring at the horizon that awaits them. It’s painted a dark black, the colour of ink when it spills over a piece of parchment, the colour of coal as it’s mined from the earth. Little specks of white dots across the sky, each one twinkling in it’s own way. 

“Did ya know that when we see stars, we see into the past? Light takes over eight minutes’ta reach the earth so we’re seein’ eight minutes in’ta the past.” He says this without looking away, and his eyes are entranced by the sheer darkness of the night sky. 

“No, I didn’t know that.” Sakusa’s reply is quiet and barely there, and Atsumu has to listen closely to catch every word. 

“I guess we learn somethin’ new everyday.” 

The silence surrounding them is surprisingly comfortable. They’re happy to just sit and bask in each other’s presence, at least for a few minutes. 

When the wind has battered Atsumu’s thin shirt for a few seconds too long, his skin is cold and becoming numb. It tears at his golden hair, ripping it from the carefully applied hairspray that once held it in place. “I think ‘m goin’ta go inside. ‘m cold. See ya at practise, Omi-kun.” 

Sakusa’s complaint at the nickname goes in one of Atsumu’s ears and out the other as he abandons Sakusa to the howling wind, retreating inside to the warmth of the party. The party is louder than he expected, but seeing Kageyama and Hinata cuddling warms him up more than any heater could. 

Atsumu can’t help but feel like he left a part of himself outside with Sakusa when they talked about stars. 

  
  


┈┈┈

  
  
  


The next time the two meet is after their volleyball practise in the locker-room, when Sakusa is wiping down his locker with a paper towel and a spray-bottle of alcohol which seeps into the air. Their locker-room is muggy and sticky, and the sound of Sakusa’s frantic movements is audible. Sakusa is surprisingly dressed in less clothes than usual, with his t-shirt and shorts from practise still stained with sweat. 

It allows Atsumu to see slightly more porcelain skin than usual, even if he is preoccupied with dressing himself so he can go home and sleep. 

However, when he glances at the man standing across the room, his eyes can’t help but seem to catch on the bruise that litters Sakusa’s upper arm. The bruise is purple and hideous, edging into a sallow yellow around the sides. It must be painful, Atsumu first thinks, and then it hits him.

That’s the same bruise he’d given himself a few days earlier by bumping into his kitchen cabinet. 

That bruise was the reason his arm felt even more sore than usual. A hand instinctively presses to his own arm, and he grunts when that familiar pain comes rushing back. It’s definitely his, alright. 

Perhaps it was just a similar shaped and located bruise? Atsumu exhaled sharply. There was no way that Sakusa Kiyoomi, the guy that apparently hates his guts, was his soulmate. The fates weren’t that cruel, were they?

Atsumu prayed they weren’t. 

He turns away from the centre of the room, returning to his own business. It was foolish to think that Sakusa was his soulmate, he scolded himself. It was just giving himself a false hope that would be snatched away in an instant by reality, and he knew he’d break his own heart. 

Their relationship is weird, he muses as he walks to his apartment with his volleyball bag slung over his shoulder and his hair rustling in the slight breeze. Sakusa’s suddenly less  _ mean _ , in his opinion at least, and the insults don’t sting as much.

Or maybe it’s just him. 

When he returns to practise the next day, he stumbles upon Bokuto and Hinata having a riveting discussion. Sakusa’s nowhere to be seen, and the rest of their team are having a practise match on the main courts. 

“Have you noticed that Omi-san is a lot nicer lately?” Hinata over-enthusiastically asks Bokuto, who considers this idea profusely.

“In fact, I have! He’s less prickly -- like a sea urchin!”

Unfortunately, Sakusa hears the last few sentences. “I’m not a sea-urchin!” He mutters to himself.

Atsumu, who is merely watching from the side, lets loose a chuckle as he watches the whole interaction go down. Bokuto, for once in his life, is right. Sakusa was less stingy, much to everyone’s surprise. 

Of course, that itself didn’t translate into their volleyball practises. He still has his super-bendy wrists and his freaky spin that could only be matched by Ushijima’s southpaw serve and spike, but his demeanour was less guarded. His replies were slightly longer, less snappy.

Sakusa’s face is still hidden beneath a mask, and his hands are still obscured by surgical gloves but that was the norm, Atsumu supposed. It also makes Sakusa that little bit more beautiful, in a way. There's a merit to being comfortable wherever you went, and Sakusa’s comfortable-ness depends on those extra things so  _ god was he not going to ruin that.  _

┈┈┈

  
  


The most memorable time he saw Sakusa Kiyoomi the months after the latter had joined the MSBY Black Jackals had to be the after-party that followed their win against the Schweiden Adlers, in Atumu’s opinion. The room is dimly lit, with streamers hanging from the ceiling and red solo cups abandoned everywhere -- on the floor, on tables, even on the couch. God, Bokuto was going to have a hard time cleaning this.

Music beats into his skin as he stumbles towards the kitchen, drink in hand. Atsumu can hold his liquor of course, but he’s so exhausted from the game that everything feels like it’s too far out of his reach. He can’t be bothered dancing, so he settles for sitting in the kitchen next to Akaashi, Bokuto’s partner. 

Atsumu’s only tipsy as he enters the kitchen, Akaashi nowhere in sight. The kitchen is brighter than the ‘party-room’, and it’s a  _ mess.  _ Spilled soft drinks litter the bench, food crumbs are dirtying the once clean tabletop that Atsumu knew was clean over an hour ago. 

Suddenly, there’s an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder. It’s hold is firm on his shirt, and he’s almost expecting to see some of his friends playing a practical joke, or someone he hasn’t seen since high-school.

“Atsumu?”

Oh god. 

Every atom beneath his flesh has the same message for him:  _ run as fast as his legs will take him.  _ Unfortunately, they only give the message and don’t enact it -- his legs won’t fucking  _ move  _ and his windpipe is suddenly closing in and disappearing before he can take the breaths he needs to clarify his headspace. 

“Atsumu.” The person repeats his name, and it’s the first time in a good few years that Atsumu has seen that face. His long black hair, tied in it’s usual bun at the back of his head. His cold, blue eyes that have stared at him from across the room so many times. His familiar smirk, like he knows something Atsumu doesn’t.

“How are you?”

His brain is fuzzy. Nothing’s working like it should, and the words to get away as fast as possible are stuck in his throat and won’t come out. 

“Excuse me, I’d appreciate it if you left my boyfriend alone.” Sakusa is there, and Atsumu can’t help but blink as their reserve spiker stands closer than ever before to him, his hand slipping inside Atsumu’s and becoming intertwined. 

“We’re just talking. No need to get so defensive.” 

Sakusa’s face curls into a sneer as he takes in the other man. “We’ll be leaving. Bye.” Kiyoomi leads him away, eyes sharp as he glances back to thankfully find that the stranger is not following them and has vanished, at least for the time being.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, I wasn’t sure of any other way to get you out. Sorry you got stuck with him as a soulmate.” Sakusa’s face is unusually soft as he guides a floundering Atsumu away from the prying eyes and partygoers.

“Not my soulmate.” Atsumu grunts as Sakusa sets him down on the steps outside, feeling a bit like an overgrown child that was saved from punishment. 

Sakusa sighs. “Lucky you.” 

“Not really. ‘Samu says he hurt me.” Concentration is rushing back to Atsumu as he inhales deeply. The cold air cleanses his lungs, and he suddenly feels calmer. 

“He’s an ex?” 

Atsumu nods. “I gave up on my soulmate after I turned twenty. Chances are they wouldn’t agree with’ta instability’a me going pro. An’ besides, when I was a kid, my soulmate had really flaky and dry hands in winter. Call me stupid,” He pauses to laugh at himself. “But after they disappeared, it kind’da felt like they weren’t really there anymore.” 

Sakusa isn’t quite sure what to do with that information. He recalls as a child, having dry hands during winter because he had to wash them to get rid of at least some of the germs that covered his skin. 

“‘nd then there was the time that I thought ya had’ta bruise I gave myself!” Atsumu is babbling now, and Sakusa can’t decide if he’s drunk or not. 

“Are you drunk?” 

Waggling a finger at him childishly, Atsumu pouts. “I onl’y had one! ‘m tired.” He proceeds to close his eyes, resting his head on Sakusa’s awaiting shoulder. The sudden weight makes Kiyoomi jump, but the endearing image of the usually cocky and egotistical man sleeping like a child causes him to stop in his tracks.

“Hey, Omi-kun?”

“Yes?” Sakusa’s reply is contemplative as he gazes into the night. His arm is wrapped around Atsumu, and his legs stretch out in front of him as he takes in the suburban street in front of them. 

“What would ya do if we were soulmates? Because it feels like we are but I know ya wouldn’t like me because ya don’t like  _ anyone.”  _

The corners of Sakusa’s eyes crinkle from beneath his mask, indicating he’s smiling. “I’d kiss you. And besides, I also used to get dry hands during the winter because I washed them so much.”

“Can I have that kiss then?” 

With a shaky hand, Atsumu lifts his head from Sakusa’s shoulder to take off his mask. It hangs off his face messily, and Sakusa folds it up to stow it away in his pocket. 

Their lips connect, and suddenly everything feels right in the world again. Atsumu’s lips are warm against his own, and for having never kissed anybody, Sakusa thinks he’s doing pretty well so far. It’s not like the icarus he thought soulmates would be -- one wrong move, either too high or low, and everything he’s worked for is gone. Instead, Atsumu takes everything he has to give and in return, gives him all he can manage. 

It’s like coming home, Sakusa thinks fondly as Atsumu pushes his head into the crook of his neck. Even in the iciness of that cold night, with the wind knocking about their hair. 


End file.
